


Love, Retribution, and Other Inconveniences

by kamibanani



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AO3 please stop appending the word freeform to my tags, Anathema Device | Archangel Gabriel | Beelzebub, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also featuring:, but silly stuff as well, slowish burn, some other supporting characters + some characters I may or may not be making up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/pseuds/kamibanani
Summary: Unsettled by his separation from Heaven, Aziraphale finds his spirits are lifted when Crowley begins to pursue him in earnest after the Notpocalypse. With both Heaven and Hell off their backs (even if only temporarily), their relationship starts blooming after six thousand years of fleeting, stolen moments.But their paradise on earth begins to crumble when Abaddon, the angel of the abyss, appears. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley are sure which side Abaddon is on, but whatever the case it's certain that the keeper of the bottomless pit is not ontheirside.





	1. [Cover]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not actually chapter one, but AO3 won't let me set this to chapter zero.


	2. Belated Worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually Chapter 1.

**_One week after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't_ **

The day after the world seemed like it was ready to up and bugger off started almost like any other day. Nuclear reactors had been returned, reappearing as mysteriously as they vanished; the M25 was no longer surrounded by an inexplicable ring of fire; and the kraken had returned to the unexplored depths of the ocean to sleep—if it existed, at least (the jury was out on that by virtue of said depths being unexplored).

And somewhere in Soho, a little bookshop had been beautifully restored, much to the marvel of the neighbourhood which collectively swore it had, in fact, burned entirely down the previous day.

A.Z. Fell & Co., Booksellers had been a fixture in Soho since 1800, and for exactly twenty-four hours most of the locals mourned the loss of the queer little shop and its even queerer proprietor who, by all accounts, died in the flames. A lanky fellow with a shock of unnaturally red hair had even heroically entered the building just before the windows burst and despite the best efforts of the fire brigade, had come out alone, looking very much like a broken man as he drove away in his vintage Bentley.

It was to everyone's great surprise, then, when he dutifully opened the miraculously restored shop the next day, clad in his customary, slightly outdated tan-and-cream outfit. Customary, that is, save the subtle dark red soles of his otherwise brown-and-gold shoes.

The shop then stayed open for exactly ten minutes and thirty-two seconds, after which he locked it back up and left for the day.

One week later, Aziraphale, Guardian of the East Gate and principality of Heaven—known to most people as A.Z. Fell—flipped the sign on the door from closed to open and settled into his favourite squishy armchair with a cup of tea and his latest book of choice. The bookshop wasn't _quite_ the way he left it— _Jack Cade, Frontier Hero_ , for example, was definitely not part of his collection—but seeing as the anomalous additions were all rare and first edition books he made his peace with it rather quickly.

"'Scuse me, mister, how much is this?"

A young boy, accompanied by a woman he presumed to be the boy's mother, held out a rather old-looking copy of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ , causing Aziraphale's eye to twitch ever so slightly as he took in the copious amount of dirt and goodness-knows-what on the child's hands.

"Erm," he began, gripping his teacup and saucer tightly so as not to snatch the book right back. "You see, that one isn't really—"

"Fifty quid," came a voice from the doorway.

Aziraphale looked up in surprise, then narrowed his eyes when he saw a familiar silhouette. "I beg your par—"

"Fifty," Crowley repeated firmly, sauntering over as if his legs operated independently from his body. "On account of it being a first edition and all."

He sat shell-shocked in his chair as Crowley accepted a fifty pound note from the woman which he deftly, but obviously, slipped into his own pocket. Once the mother and child were safely out of earshot, Aziraphale set down his teacup and turned to Crowley with more than just a tinge of annoyance in his eyes.

"My _dear_ boy," he said slowly, "that was worth sixteen _thousand_ pounds."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You don't _need_ money."

"It is the _principle_ of the thing," Aziraphale insisted, hand on his chest as if he had been mortally wounded. "Would you sell your Bentley for anything less than market value?"

"Ah, but see, I would _never_ sell my Bentley. I had her from new, you know. You, on the other hand," Crowley swept his arm out to encompass the entire bookshop, "have almost no end of rare and collectible books and—might I add—run. A. Book. _Shop._ "

Aziraphale huffed. "That's entirely besides the point."

What Aziraphale didn't know was that _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ had disappeared from the child's possession and reappeared in the backseat of the Bentley. It had been set down at a local cafe and very briefly unobserved, upon which when the lad picked it up again it was a very nice, but much newer, copy of the book.

With a frown, he picked up his teacup and made his way to the kitchenette. Crowley meandered after him, chuckling in amusement. 

"Come on," Crowley said when they were safely ensconced in the back room, brushing the back of his hand briefly, but tenderly, against Aziraphale's. "He's just a kid."

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally.

In the grand scheme of things, angels cherish children to no end whilst demons hatch fiendish plots to turn them to the purposes of the forces of evil. Archangel Rafael, for instance, found great joy in caring for children of all ages. Beelzebub, on the other hand, cared very little for the children themselves but delighted in convincing the ones with the greatest potential for doing Hell's bidding to take every opportunity to make a malicious choice.

In the case of Aziraphale and Crowley, however, this wasn't quite accurate.

For Crowley, children—toddlers especially—were the perfect little minions of minor mayhem. Schoolyards, in particular, were perfect little storms of controlled chaos. Once, Crowley snatched a small child out of the way of a cyclist Crowley had influenced to ride carelessly on the pavement (so as not to disrupt the bedlam, of course, and not because of anything magnanimous, _of course_ ); the child immediately and without hesitation deposited chewed gum into the elaborately coiffed hair of some passing woman. _Cheeky bugger._

On the other hand, Aziraphale was much less comfortable around children. He didn't hate them, but they were so… so tiny, and dirty, and just so _unpredictable_. He had no idea what to say to children beyond trying to impart words of Wisdom and showing them his human magic tricks. But once they were old enough to start questioning his wisdom and ignore his clumsy sleight of hand, they became very difficult to manage indeed.

When it was clear that Aziraphale wouldn't say anything else, Crowley sighed and plopped himself into one of the kitchen chairs, sitting with legs akimbo and one arm draped casually over the chairback.

"You're in a snit today," he observed. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"I'm not wearing _knickers_ ," Aziraphale replied absently, focused on washing his teacup.

Suddenly, Crowley was behind him. Aziraphale could feel him looming, hardly a hair's breadth between them. His hands stopped moving over his teacup, water running endlessly out of the tap.

"Oh?"

There was something loaded about that one syllable, drawn out low and lingering, something Aziraphale thought he understood but wasn't quite sure how to broach. Crowley sounded short of breath, which was a curiosity since he didn't actually need to breathe.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Aziraphale started; he shut off the tap, then sidestepped past Crowley and turned. Anathema Device leaned against the doorway, hand on her hip.

"Miss Device," he said, aiming for pleasant but landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of embarrassed. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

If Anathema had any ideas or opinions about what was happening when she walked in, she kept them to herself; instead, she waved and smiled.

Crowley turned as well, leaning languidly against the sink—though, Anathema thought she saw him move a fraction of an inch closer to the other man.

"Hey," he said, not looking particularly pleased to see her. Or, at least, she felt so. With those bizarre glasses it was hard to discern much of anything.

"Just wanted to check in," she said. "It's been a week. Have you heard from your, uh… friends?"

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance. They had, in fact, been individually carted off to Heaven and Hell to face divine retribution. However, thanks to Anathema's prophetic ancestor, Agnes Nutter, they had managed to avoid complete annihilation by swapping places.

They'd spent that night laughing uproariously over too many bottles of wine at the dumbfounded looks on their respective former comrades' faces as "Aziraphale" stepped nonchalantly into hellfire and "Crowley" splashed around in a bathtub filled to the brim with the holiest of holy waters. Aziraphale was particularly chuffed by Archangel Michael's expression as he stared them down with Crowley's golden eyes, seeing the uncertainty flicker in Heaven's general as they agreed to leave Crowley alone. In turn, Crowley's favourite part was spitting hellfire out of Aziraphale's mouth and watching all the angels—including Archangel Gabriel—leap back in fright.

"No," they answered simultaneously.

"Not even once," Aziraphale added.

"Not a peep," Crowley agreed.

"—don't really expect to anymore."

"—haven't even sent a _postcard_."

An awkward silence descended, broken only by the sudden screeching of a car alarm somewhere outside. Crowley moved, purposefully now, next to Aziraphale; he reminded Anathema of a coiled serpent, ready to strike. Which made sense if what the other guy said was true—that he was the snake in the Garden of Eden—and Anathema, descendent of Agnes Nutter, Witch, had no reason to believe it wasn't.

She cleared her throat.

"Well, that's good to hear," she said brightly, as if nothing strange had occurred. "It looks like everything is back to normal, after all."

She gathered up her voluminous skirts—Crowley couldn't help but notice she and Aziraphale were kindred spirits in outdated fashion—and made to leave.

"Wait," he called after her. "Was that it?"

Anathema hesitated. She had come with the intention of telling them that Agnes had sent her another manuscript of prophecies and, not wishing to have her life ruled by trying to decipher the future, had burned the book—but _not_ before she had spotted prophecy number 95483.

It read:

 _And when one week passes_  
_N'rmal though 't seemeth_  
_the angel and demon shall beest did test_  
_for the bottomless pit shalt in the weeks cometh appear_

But looking at them now, she didn't have the heart to burst their bubble. The demon stood next to the angel, head tilted toward him in what Anathema could only describe as 'adoration', while the angel stood close enough to be able to discreetly brush against him. An odd couple to be sure, but different strokes.

It would be far kinder, she reasoned, to allow them as much happiness as possible before whatever the 'bottomless pit' was showed up.

"Yes," she lied cheerfully. "Newton and I are leaving for America for a few weeks, and I wanted to stop in before we go."

* * *

"She was lying, obviously."

Night had fallen, and the bookshop had been closed for ages. They'd dined at the Ritz, something they had been doing for every night since their narrow escape, and were now about six hours into Aziraphale's gratuitous stores of wine.

Crowley waved his glass drunkenly, ignoring how its contents sloshed over the sides.

"Will you give it a rest?" 

"But my dear," Aziraphale slurred, leaning across the table intently, eyes squinting and bleary, "she's the descendant of _Agnes Nutter!_ What if she knows something… you know… all… future-y? It helped ups—I mean, us—last time!"

"We'll be _fine_."

Crowley reached across the table and, after a few tries, managed to pat Aziraphale's hand. The gesture made Aziraphale smile a little half-smile that, even in Crowley's drunken state, set off a klaxon of warning. He sobered up immediately, expelling drunkenness from him like one would exhale.

"What's wrong?"

Aziraphale followed suit, shaking off intoxication with a little wiggle of his head. He sighed.

"It's this whole business with Heaven," he admitted.

"We're well shut of them," Crowley replied acidly.

"Aren't you a little biased, my dear?" Aziraphale patted the back of Crowley's hand tenderly. "No, what I mean is, it's just a little strange to be cut off entirely without… you know…"

"Having Fallen," Crowley finished for him.

"Exactly."

"You never cared much about going back before."

"It's the principle of the thing, my dear boy."

Silence settled between them, Aziraphale staring forlornly at his wine glass as if he'd like nothing more than to crawl inside it. Which, being capable of performing miracles, was a distinct possibility. 

It would have been different if he _had_ actually Fallen. It would have been painful to be permanently cast out of Heaven, to be denied Her presence and grace for all eternity—and the reception from the other side would not have been a warm one—but it would have at least meant he knew where he stood, and that he and Crowley would be the same. He glanced at Crowley, his expression softening.

But being in limbo, so to speak, still an angel on paper but quite uncertain of his standing in the ecclesiastical echelons was almost unbearable. Though he was confident that Crowley and he had been successful in their deception (after all, Agnes Nutter was _never_ wrong) and though he was certain he had done the _right_ thing, he still felt an emptiness without having a clearly defined place or purpose. Heaven was too terrified of his apparent immunity to hellfire to press the matter, and for the last week he had felt listless and much like a rudderless ship.

Crowley's brow furrowed in sympathy. If there was anyone in the whole of the cosmos that understood the angel's predicament, it was he. True, he had Fallen, officially, but it wasn't really so much a fall as it was sauntering vaguely downward. He still felt—despite his best efforts—the sting of injustice of Heaven's Absoluteness, the lack of shades of grey in their decrees. Aziraphale was suffering for that, now, as heavenly bureaucracy shuddered to a halt in abject confusion.

"Aye, well." He stood, slipping his fingers into his pockets. "It's too late to do anything about it now; we got along with just the two of us before and we'll do it again. Just _our_ side now, angel."

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. "Our side," he echoed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) for beta reading. (please go check out their stuff!)


	3. A Leap of Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually Chapter 2.

There often comes a point in life where being vulnerable is the only way one can move forward. There's no shortcut, no easy way to open yourself up to the possibility of being hurt; doubt and fear plague you, squeezing, making every breath agony. The only way is to take the plunge, to lay yourself bare without looking back.

This is where Crowley found himself, watching Aziraphale slowly bury his head in his arms as he ached from the loss of Heaven. Crowley felt an answering pang in his own chest, remembering vividly when he plummeted down into darkness with no one to help him up after he fell. He'd had no one until that day in Eden, no one until he slithered up a stone wall and found himself genuinely laughing for the first time since She banished him from Her presence.

He found himself dropping to his knees next to Aziraphale; he reached out, then thought better of it, resting his hand on the side of the table instead.

"You scared me."

The words were alien in his mouth, his voice thick and slow. Aziraphale looked at him in surprise, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

"When you were discorporated," Crowley explained. "I came here to find you, after I… after I gave Hastur and Ligur the slip. You weren't answering the phone, and when I got here the shop was on fire."

Aziraphale stayed silent, studying him intently.

"I was so scared."

Crowley dropped his head, hearing the wooden table crack and splinter as he clenched his hand. His eyes burned and watered; he blinked and forced himself to keep speaking.

"I called for you, you know. I called and called, and when you didn't answer I thought you were dead. I hated them all."

Aziraphale leaned forward, tilting Crowley's chin up and cupping his face in his hands. His thumb wiped away a tear Crowley didn't even know had fallen.

"Oh, my dear."

Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together; Crowley leaned into the gesture, closing his eyes as he took a deep, steadying breath, revelling in the warmth of the angel's touch. He let go of the table and after just a moment's hesitation, took Aziraphale's hands in his own. Trembling, Crowley placed a soft kiss against the back of Aziraphale's hands, who sighed with happiness.

He stood, tugging Aziraphale out of the chair and wrapping him in his arms, his grip tightening as Aziraphale returned the hug. He buried his face in Aziraphale's hair, taking in the comforting scent of old paper and spun sugar.

"You were right, Crowley," came Aziraphale's muffled voice from somewhere around his chest. "I was being so stupid. I should have—"

"Shh."

Aziraphale looked up at him in surprise; taking a deep breath, Crowley threw caution to the wind.

Taking a leap of faith can be rewarding when someone is there to catch you. They lift you up to the light and fill you with peace, a balm to your broken heart.

_"Aziraphale."_

He whispered the angel's name like a prayer, solemn and pleading, hope seeping through syllables like light through the cracks of his fractured core. He covered Aziraphale's mouth in a gentle kiss, his eyes squeezing shut behind his glasses as his vessel's heart pounded with fear.

Aziraphale kissed him back.

How long they stayed like this, enveloped in each other and kissing as if Armageddon had come once more, neither of them knew. A moment stretched into eternity, and when they finally pulled away they were both breathless.

"Well then," Aziraphale eventually said, smiling beatifically.

"I've waited six thousand years to do that," Crowley admitted.

"And now that you have?"

Crowley pushed his sunglasses onto his head, his yellow serpentine eyes luminescent in the warm lights of the bookshop, leaning in to cover Aziraphale's mouth in kisses once more.

"I never want to let you go."

* * *

A.Z. Fell & Co. stayed closed the following day; hopeful patrons read the closed sign with dismay, some of them attempting to peer into the shop to see if anyone was inside. Strangely enough, they couldn't see in through the glass at all. It was as if the interior had been plunged into a void—or had some really effective blackout curtains.

Aziraphale ambled out of the kitchenette, two steaming mugs of cocoa in hand. Crowley was sprawled across the davenport, arm dangling over the edge and feet propped up on the armrest. Sometime in the night, he had managed to wrap the patterned throw around himself, turning into a tangle of blankets and limbs. Neither of them needed to sleep, but Crowley seemed to find it enjoyable.

Crowley opened one eye as Aziraphale approached, sitting up and accepting the proffered mug. He wrinkled his nose a little at the angel motif, gingerly turning the wing-shaped handle away from him. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice, taking a long, drawn out sip from his own mug before letting loose a satisfied sigh.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked politely.

"Mmm."

The cocoa was too sweet for Crowley's liking, but he drank it anyway, not bothering to miracle it to his tastes. It was the first time Aziraphale had made anything for him, and he wanted to savour every bit of the saccharine cocoa and moment.

"I suppose we should talk about last night," Aziraphale said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Anything in particular?"

"Well," the angel looked down at his mug, studying its contents intently. "This isn't really something that angels and demons do, is it? At least, not together."

Actually, Crowley never heard of… whatever this was between them happening between angels at all. Angels, as a rule, weren't really big on emotions, or displays of affection. In fact, Crowley was quite sure that none of them had experienced anything even remotely close to what he and Aziraphale had been wrestling with for the last six thousand years.

(He was wrong, in fact. Several of the lower orders were consorting with each other, and even Michael and Gabriel had a dalliance or two themselves, but that is neither here nor there.)

"I suppose not," Crowley replied.

"So," Aziraphale continued, "I'm not really sure what this is. Are we… well, we're friends, of course. Best friends, I think. But that doesn't seem particularly adequate, does it?"

Crowley set down his mug on a nearby table and turned, focusing his full attention on Aziraphale. He had yet to put his sunglasses back on, and Aziraphale squirmed slightly under the intensity of his gaze.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed.

A few moments passed before Crowley leaned back against the davenport, looking across the room and fixing his gaze on a stack of books.

"Humans have a word for it," he said in a would-be nonchalant manner, "they call it dating."

Aziraphale blinked. "I do know what dating is, Crowley."

"Really?"

The angel scoffed, setting his mug down next to Crowley's.

"My dear boy," he replied, with just a hint of exasperation, "I may not be, as they say, _hip to it_ —"

Crowley groaned; Aziraphale ignored him.

"—but yes, I know what dating is. I'm an angel, not a recluse."

"Last week you said _licking_ butt instead of _kicking_ butt."

"But you knew what I meant," Aziraphale said with satisfaction, folding his hands primly in his lap.

Crowley wasn't really sure how any of that tracked, so he just shook his head and slipped his sunglasses on.

"Fine, then; you know what dating is. We could call it dating."

"Okay," Aziraphale agreed, wiggling happily in his seat.

"O-okay," Crowley echoed, turning his head and covering his face with his hand as heat crept up his neck and into his cheeks. "I guess that's settled, then."

The bustling sounds of the street outside somehow didn't make it into the bookshop, leaving them in a warm, comforting peace as they sat on the davenport. Eventually, Aziraphale casually reached over and took Crowley's hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb across Crowley's knuckles.

Crowley felt like leaping up and punching the air, but since that would mean letting go of Aziraphale's hand, he sat there in silence instead, closing his eyes and relishing the current of electricity that ran up his arm with every pass.

They stayed like this, hand-in-hand, until the sun was high in the sky.

* * *

The days that followed were something like paradise; they both would know, seeing as that's where they met. On new footing with each other and no longer beholden to either Heaven or Hell, Crowley and Aziraphale not only saw each other daily but filled almost all hours in each other's presence.

A.Z. Fell & Co. stayed closed all week.

On Monday, they took a stroll around St. James park, for the first time not looking over their shoulders or caring if anyone saw them. They walked slowly down the path and around the pond, speaking softly of memories of the last six thousand years. Between the _do you remember_ 's and the _when was it again_ 's, Crowley surprised Aziraphale with a long-awaited-for picnic, complete with a tartan-patterned picnic blanket.

Tuesday, they nipped over the channel—the human way, on a lovely boat—and went to Paris. The crêpes and brioche were still unparalleled, and they reminisced as they wandered through the city, lingering particularly at the July Column marking the site of the Bastille.

"I have to ask," Crowley remarked, suddenly remembering. "Why did you say 'oh good lord' when you saw me?"

Aziraphale blushed but didn't answer, instead changing the subject to the sudden discovery of a new confectionery.

On Wednesday, they went to Rome, skipping Vatican City all together. They wandered the ruins of the Colosseum, Aziraphale lamenting how poorly Nero had turned out despite his attempts at persuading him toward the light. They passed Trevi fountain, an American tourist giving them a Knowing Look and asking if they wanted to throw any coins in. Crowley shook his head, but when Aziraphale wasn't looking tossed three coins over his shoulder as they walked away.

Thursday found them back in London, wandering past the site where a church once stood. Aziraphale stood quite close to Crowley, brushing up against him gently. That was the first time Aziraphale ever saw him kill anyone, even if they were despicable Nazis.

"How did you know I was here?" he wondered out loud.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, leaving Aziraphale to realise that Crowley almost always was the one to find him. The knowledge of it seemed… potent, somehow, and he tucked it away to ask again later.

On Friday, they dined at the Ritz. They had a usual table by now, perpetually reserved whether or not they decided to use it. They split a bottle of champagne, toasting first the world, then each other. Aziraphale overheard a waiter wondering to his co-worker whether or not the man in black would propose soon, and he choked on his rack of lamb.

On Saturday, Crowley took Aziraphale back to his place.

He'd been there once before, exactly two weeks ago, but between the stress of helping thwart Armageddon in the nick of time, and pacing the floor of Crowley's office for the entire night alternating between hashing and rehashing their plan and lamenting the loss of his bookshop, Aziraphale didn't really remember much about it.

"Oh, what lovely plants," he said with both surprise and admiration.

To his great shock, Crowley clapped a hand tightly over his mouth. Aziraphale was possessed with the strangest desire to stick his tongue out and lick it, but refrained.

 _"Don't say that!"_ Crowley hissed, his eyes darting around. "They'll hear you."

Crowley's office hadn't changed much since he'd last been there, though he noticed that the dark, sooty spot on the floor by the door had disappeared. He almost asked about it, but suddenly Hastur's voice echoed in his mind.

 _Murdered another demon._  
_I've seen what that stuff can do._

Oh. So that's why he'd wanted it.

Something inside him ached, realising that Crowley had been planning for being discovered since the 1800s… and that he had waited a hundred and fifty years until helping. It was another thing Aziraphale felt the need to apologise for, though he suspected that Crowley would just shush him like he did before.

Not that he'd mind if he shushed him the _exact_ same way, he thought, remembering with a shiver the feel of Crowley's lips against his.

They spent a quiet afternoon together, the television on low in the background playing one film after another on something Crowley called a "streaming service", though Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where streams came to play since all he saw seemed to be detective stories from the 1970s.

Crowley ordered takeaway—kebabs and chicken tikka—as Aziraphale watched the little car on his phone screen with interest, shouting out updates when the delivery vehicle was three blocks—two blocks—one block away. Their pinkies touched as they sat on the floor next to each other, their backs leaning up on a sleek leather couch Crowley materialised from nowhere. Aziraphale laughed in delight as Crowley began re-enacting the scenes playing on the television, every line delivered with perfect recall and intonation.

They planned their Sunday, arguing only slightly about whether or not they should go to China or Japan next.

Sunday, however, had other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to my beta reader, [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis). I definitely recommend all of their fics :>
> 
> For those of you unfamiliar with the legend of Trevi fountain, it is said that if you toss three coins into the fountain it will guarantee you come back to Rome, fall in love, and then marry the person you fell in love with.


	4. An Unwelcome Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually Chapter 3.

"I really should bring a valise," Aziraphale murmured, hurrying about the top floor of the bookshop.

"Awh, oh—no," Crowley protested, almost spinning in a circle as he followed Aziraphale's movements. "Why do you need a valise? You could just miracle whatever you wanted to brin—angel, how _old_ is that valise?!"

Aziraphale had managed to unearth a dusty leather valise, its sides ornately decorated. The leather was in need of a good polish, its corners slightly dingy from use.

"I've had this from new, you know," he sniffed. "Purchased it in 1872 from a lovely shop."

" _Eighteen seventy_ —we have got to get you new luggage, if you insist on bringing some."

Crowley miracled a matching set right into the room, even adding a lovely brown-and-blue tartan pattern to the shell. Aziraphale admired it for a split second before shaking his head.

"Those are lovely, my dear, thank you—but no." He patted the little leather valise, which was suddenly shiny and bright, like new. Crowley could read the patent date of _1872_ on the gleaming brass clasp from where he stood.

With a sigh, he lifted his fingers to snap the new cases away but Aziraphale stopped him with a look.

"I'll keep them," he said with a small smile. "But for next time."

_Next time._

Crowley couldn't keep the grin off his face.

"Come on, angel," he said, taking the steps down from the upper floor of the bookshop two at a time. "Do you want to take a plane, or just miracle ourselves there? A plane would be a more authentic experience, but—"

He skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs; Aziraphale crashed into him with a small "Oh!"

There are, the last anyone counted, approximately sixteen million angels currently in operation under Heaven's orders. Most of them were quite unconcerned with Earth as a whole, instead being tied to an individual person or specific location. They milled about Heaven, looking down through the Earth observation files at their assignment, appearing only if the need was absolutely dire—and sometimes, not even then. 

Principalities, in particular, are angels that have been assigned by Heaven as protectors of a particular domain. In Aziraphale's case, he is the principality of the Eastern Gate; guardian of the Garden Eden, given a flaming sword to warn any humans who tried to return (the fact he gave it away is another matter entirely). Heaven itself has multiple principalities assigned to it, guarding its many gates of entrance. Limbo has one as well, who prevents souls being cleansed in preparation for acceptance into Heaven from both leaving of their own accord as well as being spirited away by demonic wiles.

"Hahasiah?" Aziraphale squeezed past Crowley, shock and disbelief ringing in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

* * *

"You're making me nervous, demon. Won't you sit down?"

Crowley harrumphed, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at the newcomer through his sunglasses.

"I'll stay standing."

Like all angels excepting Aziraphale, Hahasiah wore an immaculate, contemporary-style suit; she took a page out of Michael's book and had opted for one in blazing white, accented only by the lightest touch of gold jewelry with a motif of angel wings. It contrasted sharply with her dark brown skin and nearly-black hair, done in twists. Setting herself apart, the principality made no effort to contain her divinity. For humans, this manifested as an inexplicable draw to her on first glance; for Crowley, it made his eyes water.

Seated in Aziraphale's usual chair (an offence in and of itself), Hahasiah crossed her legs and tossed her long hair over her shoulder as she appraised Crowley, brown eyes critical as they travelled from his wiry copper hair down to his snakeskin-textured boots.

"Really, Aziraphale?" she asked, pronouncing his name in the way he quite disliked, the last syllable sounding a lot like _fail_. She turned her head to look at him. " _This_ guy?"

Aziraphale flushed slightly, but his eyes sparked with defiance as he handed Hahasiah a cup of cocoa.

"Yes. And his _name_ is _Crowley_."

Crowley made a noise as if to say, _"Ha!"_

"My dear," Aziraphale continued, turning to Crowley, "this is Hahasiah, Principality of Limbo."

"I'm not judging," she protested, ignoring the introduction. "Just a bit of a shock, is all."

"I'm here, you know," Crowley reminded her, venom nearly dripping from his words.

Hahasiah continued to ignore him.

"Heaven doesn't know what to do with you, Aziraphale. An angel who's still an angel but is immune to hellfire? It's never happened before. Is it true you spat fire like a dragon?"

"Erm," Aziraphale replied, doing his best not to look at Crowley, "after a fashion."

Hahasiah laughed and leaned back in the chair, quite at ease. "All the archangels are talking about it. You've made quite an impression."

Aziraphale smiled warily, folding his hands in front of him.

"So it seems. I don't mean to be rude, Hahasiah—"

"Please, call me 'Hannah'."

"— _Hannah_ ," Aziraphale amended, "but what are you doing here? I haven't seen you since before I was assigned to Eden. Who is guarding Limbo?"

"Limbo is fine," she replied, deftly sidestepping the question. "But there's something going on that the archangels don't want to tell us, and it isn't about you two."

"What is it?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "What's happening?" 

"I don't know," Hannah admitted, "but I saw Beelzebub themself upstairs the other day, talking to Gabriel."

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance. This came as less of a surprise to them after last week, seeing both Gabriel and Beelzebub on the tarmac at Tadfield Airbase, speaking to each other with a degree of familiarity neither of them would have expected of their bosses.

Beelzebub actually _going upstairs_ , however, could only mean one of two things, either:

> A) they were invited, indicating something catastrophic enough for Heaven to invite Hell to cross the threshold (such as punishing Aziraphale, as they did the week prior);
> 
> or B) something so momentous had occurred that they had gone up without an invitation.

Either way it was—at a _minimum_ —cause for concern.

Hannah stood, pushing her chair back in and discreetly miracling the contents of her mug away. "Heaven's under strict orders not to approach either of you, but since I'm in Limbo and not Heaven, I figured it didn't apply."

Contrary to popular belief, the mandates of Heaven are far from absolute. Missed punctuation here, a change in which word is emphasised there, or even just boiling things down to the on-the-tin wording left a lot of wiggle room. The bureaucracy of Heaven—and Hell, for that matter—were firm advocates of _technically_ correct being the best kind of correct.

Aziraphale, however, as Heaven hadn't hesitated to point out, had gone native; the technical explanation was far from satisfactory.

"But…" Aziraphale spoke slowly, his expression shuttered. " _Why_ are you here?"

It was a good job none of them needed to breathe, because the question sucked all the air out of the room. Hannah blanched and Crowley's hackles rose as they realised Aziraphale didn't trust the Principality of Limbo. 

Every fibre of Crowley's being writhed and twisted in anger for Aziraphale. _This_ was what Heaven had done; only a fortnight ago Aziraphale had been willing to risk the destruction of Earth on his _faith_ that the Heavenly Hosts would do the right thing.

And they let him down.

Hannah held her hands out, palms up in a gesture of peace.

"It's not like that," she said quickly (too quickly, perhaps). "Heaven, Hell… it doesn't affect Limbo. It's not like I'll be charging into battle either way, Heaven is too afraid of Hell getting ahold of the souls still waiting to be purified."

Aziraphale didn't look entirely satisfied, but he nodded in acceptance. 

"Thank you," he said politely, "for the warning."

Hannah held out her hand for Aziraphale to shake. After a brief hesitation, he clasped it for a fraction of a moment, letting go quickly as if it were somehow displeasing to make contact. Her expression contorted, but she managed to smooth it back into place.

"Be careful, you two," she said, addressing them both but giving the distinct impression she was more concerned about Aziraphale than Crowley. "I don't know what's happening, but if Beelzebub and Gabriel are consulting each other then it's got to be big."

* * *

"What the _fuck!_ "

"Crowley! Calm down, please!"

Aziraphale wrung his hands as the demon paced the shop, dragging his hand through his coppery hair in agitation. He rounded on the angel, shaking a finger in his face.

"It's got to be a trap," Crowley said for what might have been the hundredth time since Hannah left. "It's a blessed trap, and those bastards up there are hoping we'll be stupid enough to fall for it."

"She did say it wasn't about us," Aziraphale replied, though he also looked doubtful.

"But how does she _know_ it isn't about us? What, did Gabriel and Beelzebub just shout out, 'Hey, this isn't about those two' and then immediately drop their voices to a whisper? How _convenient_." Crowley spat out the word like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

"That's how Gabriel comes into the bookshop," Aziraphale muttered.

"I—what?" Crowley asked, momentarily distracted.

"Gabriel. The last time he was here he announced loudly that he had stopped in to purchase pornography."

Crowley choked, a wheezing laugh slipping past his lips. A picture of Gabriel looking with detached interest at a centrefold in nothing but his pants and socks firmly lodged itself into his brain, rendering him speechless for several minutes.

When he had quite recovered, tucking away that mental image for a rainy day, he slumped down on the davenport with his head in his hands. "Let's assume it's not about us. Why would an angel see fit to warn us about it?"

Aziraphale sat next to him, resting his pinky finger ever so lightly against Crowley's thigh.

"Maybe out of a sense of duty," he replied, pretending not to hear the hollowness in his voice. 

_Duty_. Aziraphale had once, long ago, been a good little angel who followed orders and did his duty. Meeting Crowley had stripped that away, little by little, over six millennia and now he found himself wondering how he ever managed to just duck his head down and do as he was told. 

In some ways, being dutiful was much easier.

"Since we're not in touch with either of our head offices," Aziraphale continued, "perhaps Hannah felt we should be offered a sporting chance against… whatever this is."

Crowley snorted. "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe she's into you."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Unfortunately, one of the things that frequently bit Anthony J. Crowley in the arse was his uncanny ability to make things more difficult for himself. He meant the comment about Hannah's interest in Aziraphale as a joke, but the second the words came out he felt that slow drop of his stomach that always accompanied the proverbial rake handle in the face.

The words twisted like invisible ropes, coiling themselves around his chest and squeezing tightly. He'd been jealous before, so the emotion was nothing new: jealous of the angels that were able to stay in Her grace; jealous of the angels who could associate with Aziraphale freely; jealous of Heaven itself for competing with him in Aziraphale's heart. He was a selfish bastard—after all, it was one of the things demons did best.

Now he was jealous of a hypothetical interest _he_ uttered into existence, like an idiot. 

As if sensing his train of thought, Aziraphale reached out to grasp his hand with all the warmth that had been absent from his handshake with Hannah. Crowley exhaled, marshalling his thoughts; Aziraphale had chosen not just humanity, but _him_ over Heaven. Whatever had happened, whatever _would_ happen, that remained a fact. _Ineffably_ so.

They took comfort in each other's presence as the silence grew, static-y and crackling and so very different from the intimate silences they had shared over the last week.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand tightly as he felt resolve wash over him: no Heaven, no Hell—just _their side_. He wasn't about to let either of them be buffeted against the whims of good and evil.

A sidelong glance told him Aziraphale felt the same way; there was a steely look in his eyes that Crowley only ever seen once before. It was a forceful reminder that—for all of his hedonistic tendencies and love of outdated slang—Aziraphale was still a principality, the Guardian of the East gate, and power rolled through him like a storm.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley with concern.

Crowley nodded, feeling a thrill run down his spine. "I'm fine. Come on, angel, let's go get _very_ drunk."

Aziraphale thought that sounded like a lovely idea.

"Right behind you, my dear," he replied.

The valise sat forgotten on the bottom step.

* * *

Since Eden, Humanity has feared the darkness. An angel gave them fire, once, but beyond the radius of the flames the impenetrable night was home to hungry eyes and bared teeth. 

Mankind advanced, technology developed, and humans found ingenious ways to keep the darkness at bay: first campfires, then torches, candles, and finally electric lights. The world was lit up like a beacon, constantly glittering and shining and guarding against the unknown lurking in the dark.

But the brighter the light, the darker the shadows.

Oozing out of its prison, it trudged along, absorbing all in its wake. Angel, demon, human… nothing could withstand its majesty. It was hungry, so _very_ hungry.

It hadn't eaten in **_so_** long.

Much about the world had changed; gone were the vast expanses of nothing, replaced with towering metal structures every which way one looked. A brown haze covered places where trees once commanded the landscape, spewing out from those bizarre contraptions humans called 'automobiles.' At every turn, the world was corroding, being eaten away by the festering population, spreading across the globe like a fungus.

Shiftless, formless, it wandered through the streets, lingering in the corner of the eyes of passerby, darting into shadows if anyone tried to take a closer look.

Onward it trudged, seeing beauty turned to filth and greed; kindness replaced by malice and self-interest. Corruption rotted it from inside and out, lingering on everything and everyone it passed, getting under their skin and seeping into their minds and hearts. Yearning filled it, longing for something, _anything_ , to make the hunger stop.

It made its way to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta readers, [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) and [akfedeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau). They're both wonderful writers and if you're so inclined I encourage you to check out their work!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Like A Great Black Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually Chapter 4.
> 
> Hello everyone~! I got hit with the art bug so I've decided to start making a chapter illustration for every chapter! Chapters 1-3 have been updated with their illustrations as well. I'm trying out a new art style in order to better capture the TV cast's lovely faces, so execution might be a little bumpy to start. o( _ _ )o 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me!

For the first time in his existence, Aziraphale had a nightmare.

It wasn't a nightmare in the traditional sense; he had no need for sleep and unlike Crowley, chose not to experience it. The bedroom in the space above the bookshop was more for keeping up appearances—it would look odd, as far as blending in went, if a supposedly human male who lived above his shop didn't have something like a bedroom, or a bathroom.

So at night, if he wasn't spending time with Crowley or following a lead on a rare manuscript, he'd amble up to his bedroom and slip into a pair of comfortable pyjamas. He'd settle himself under the covers, either with a good book, or reminiscing on a favourite memory (frequently involving a certain demon); many times, a cup of cocoa was involved.

This night, however, instead of lapsing into his comfortable nighttime routine he found himself staring at the wall opposite the bed as his anxiety mounted. He felt a buzzing under his skin; a sort of itchy, crawling feeling that set his teeth on edge and put a great weight on his chest. He couldn't stop thinking about Hahasiah—or, rather, Hannah—and the last time they had seen each other before she appeared at the bookshop's doorstep.

Slipping into the nightmare was like memory blending in with fear. A loud, angry argument in the empty, blindingly white halls of the head office; hurtful words, words that Aziraphale barely recalled but could remember being bombarded with and flinging out in response. They had been friends until then, or at least, what passed for friends amongst angels. But something in the memory warped and shifted, the edges of it becoming inky black as the image of Hannah in his mind's eye twisted and curled into smoke.

The pristine white tiles crumbled away from under him. Instead of showing the other floors going down to Hell, it simply became a black void, darker than night, rumbling and sparking with nefarious energy. Memory-Aziraphale took a life of his own, tripping over his own legs as he struggled to escape the gaping maw.

Shakespeare's _First Folio_ —signed by the bard himself as a thank-you gift for Aziraphale's enthusiastic support of his work—slipped out of his hands and landed with an echoing _bang_ on the wooden floor. The sound jolted him out of the nightmare, and he realised that time had slipped by into the wee hours of the morning. He felt supernaturally cold and clammy, his pyjamas drenched in sweat.

It was with difficulty that he slipped out of bed to retrieve his book.

He took a breath to steady himself. Then another. And another. He didn't _need_ to breathe, of course, but doing so had become a habit over the course of six millennia and somewhat soothed the rippling in his skin.

He miracled himself to his desk downstairs and turned on his desk lamp. After a small hesitation, he picked up the phone and dialled a familiar number; after four rings, the line clicked on.

"Yeah?" Crowley said, by way of hello.

"Hello, Crowley," Aziraphale replied. "It's me."

"I _know_ it's you." His voice was deeper than usual, rough with sleep. "What is it?"

"Erm…"

Aziraphale paused, feeling silly in the warm glow of the lamp. It was nothing, really, just his worries manifesting into some cryptic—albeit, admittedly, disturbing—imagery.

He gripped the receiver. Hannah's sudden appearance had set him on edge, that's all; now that the Apocalypse was (temporarily) averted, he thought he'd get more than a fortnight's reprieve from again concerning himself with the more intricate matters of Heaven and Hell. The stress had made him doolally.

No, best to apologise and hang up. This wasn't worth bothering Crowley for.

"Actually," he said, trying to inject a note of levity into his reply, "it'll keep for the morning, I—"

"Too late," came a voice from behind him.

Aziraphale spun around, still holding the phone, the coiled cord tangling around his body. Crowley was sprawled across the davenport, glasses-free and dressed only in a pair of silky black lounge pants.

"Oh good lord," Aziraphale breathed, licking his lips and mostly averting his eyes.

Seemingly oblivious to the once-over, Crowley ambled over, plucked the receiver from his hand, unwrapped it, and set it back down in the cradle. He peered at Aziraphale, who flinched; Crowley's serpentine eyes were beautiful but were sometimes so intense, the whites of his eyes disappeared. No matter how many times he saw that happen, it sent a jolt of something straight down to Aziraphale's toes.

"What happened?" Crowley asked, his voice soft and gentle. His fingertips brushed gently against Aziraphale's hand.

"N-no, it's nothing," Aziraphale stammered. "Just being silly, really…"

Crowley narrowed his eyes and hummed his scepticism, but much to Aziraphale's relief didn't press the subject. The demon slipped his hands into his pockets (lounge pants had pockets?) and headed over to the staircase.

"Crowley?"

He didn't answer, just kept climbing the stairs. Aziraphale scrambled after him, gobsmacked when Crowley slipped into his bed and patted the space next to him with a yawn.

"Come on, angel," he murmured, eyelids already starting to droop. How much of that was Crowley desiring to sleep and how much of it was his vessel taking over, Aziraphale wasn't sure, but found it endearing nonetheless.

Feeling a dull heat in his cheeks, he crawled in and pulled the covers up around them both.

"Just do what you normally do," Crowley said, his voice fading. Aziraphale inhaled sharply as Crowley casually slipped an arm around his waist and curled around his warmth. After a moment's hesitation, Aziraphale picked up _First Folio_ again and miracled his cocoa back to hot.

"Thank you," he said softly, but the demon had already fallen asleep.

* * *

The opening paragraph on an article about Tadworth, Surrey, reads:

> _"Tadworth is a large suburban village in Surrey in the south-east of the Epsom Downs, part of the North Downs. A recent census calculated the Tadworth population to be approximately 9,522, give or take for human error."_

Human error fails to mention that Tadworth is also the home to 100 different clans of rabbits, 50 foxes, several species of bird, a few thousand ants, and five lower-class demons. They were nameless inkblots on the rosters of Hell, but present in Tadworth nonetheless, causing a spate of bad luck and unfortunate coincidences the locals began to call the Tadworth Jinx.

Kingswood, the Tadworth country club, was a frequent victim of these unpleasant occurrences, but managed to—in the ingenious way that humans seemed to always manage—monetise it. They ran a club challenge, "Defeat the Tadworth Jinx", that pulled in local and tourist golfers eager to try their hand at playing through the course despite all the mysterious mishaps. They sold "Tadworth Jinx" t-shirts and memorabilia, and even had an annual Tadworth Jinx picnic.

Not even almost-Armageddon fazed the villagers.

"Nothing like our Tadworth Jinx, eh?" they insisted, despite the freak occurrences far outperforming anything anyone ever attributed to the jinx.

So when a giant sinkhole opened up in the middle of the golf course during the annual picnic, it was less terrifying and more a minor inconvenience that could wind up turning a pretty little profit for the country club.

"Isn't this frightening?"

A girl who looked to be roughly in her mid-teen years sat on the white fence separating the club grounds from the public pavement. Her blonde pigtails swayed gently as she swung her legs with abandon and watched with bright-eyed interest as families simply picked up their belongings and shufted over a few feet as the sinkhole expanded.

"They don't look very frightened, though," she observed, chewing her gum so vigorously it squelched and smacked against her teeth.

The elderly groundskeeper shrugged and watched listlessly as both a bench and the tree it sat under toppled into the sinkhole.

"We'll just fill it in later."

The bubble the girl was blowing popped as she made a strange, strangled noise.

"Fill it in?"

The groundskeeper shrugged again, completely unperturbed.

"Aye."

She hopped off the fence and landed softly on the pavement just as the sinkhole suddenly lurched; the grass rolled and the buildings shuddered and laughter turned into shrieks and screams as the sinkhole grew wider and wider and wider at an unnatural speed. Dirt and blankets flew, an unholy amount of earth kicked up into the air as the sinkhole spread.

When the dust settled, nothing remained of the annual picnic or even the Kingswood Golf & Country Club; within the hour, the picket fence was swarmed with camera crews, news reporters, and photographers. In the air, several helicopters circled the massive sinkhole, some attempting to shine a spotlight into the pit to search for survivors.

"The girl!" the groundskeeper said to anyone who would listen. "It was her, the blonde one in the pigtails!"

But no one knew who he was talking about.

* * *

Aziraphale glanced sidelong at Crowley, eyebrow quirked in confusion.

"What are you humming?" he asked, scrunching his face as he tried to place the tune.

Crowley bit his lip to keep from answering truthfully. In all likelihood, Aziraphale would not appreciate the blasphemous humour of the standup-comedy song, _Beelz_.

"Bebop," he replied.

"Ah."

Disinterested, the angel turned his head to look out the glass walls of the lift as it climbed up to Heaven's near-uppermost sanctums. There was something distant in his expression, and Crowley thought it best not to intrude.

He had his own troubles, anyway, like a fidgety feeling that mounted as the lift rose higher and higher. Every fibre of his being screamed, _YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE!_

Crowley jammed his fingers into his needlessly small trouser pockets and tapped his fingertips rapidly against his thighs. The higher the lift climbed, the more he wanted to launch himself through the glass, set his wings loose, and let the wind blow him wherever it so chose.

A trip to Heaven had not been anywhere near Crowley's agenda for that morning—or ever, all things considered. He'd argued against it, as Aziraphale helped himself to a full English breakfast, and laid out point after point enumerating all the ways confronting Gabriel and Beelzebub directly was a terrible, foolhardy, _ridiculous_ next step, not least of all being the fact that the last time Aziraphale had tried to confront Heaven he wound up being discorporated. Aziraphale had said nothing during his impassioned speech but when he finished his breakfast (Crowley stole the last bite of sausage, of course), he simply graced Crowley with a serene smile.

"But this time, you'll be with me."

And so, Crowley found himself in the glass lift of the celestial bureaucracy as it rose above the clouds, contemplating how much force he'd need to break free.

A soft _ding_ sounded and the automatic doors opened behind them into a wide, white expanse of what could have been confused for office space except there were no desks, chairs, or employees. Just white on white: white walls broken up with impossibly smudge-free glass, white floors, and white pillars, in stark emptiness.

"Aziraphale."

Uriel pointedly ignored Crowley, their eyes fixed on the angel next to him. Like Hannah, Uriel pronounced the last syllable as _fail_ ; a flicker of displeasure flitted across Aziraphale's face. Uriel noticed, and took a cautious step back.

Crowley suppressed a grin.

"Why are you here, Aziraphale?" they asked.

Aziraphale blinked, then smiled affably as if nothing had happened between him and Heaven.

"Good morning, Uriel. Is Gabriel available?"

Uriel looked at Aziraphale warily before they shifted their focus to Crowley and rolled their eyes in disgust.

"Your _boyfriend_ will have to wait here," they said, spitting the word out as if the mere taste of it was offensive.

Crowley was about to shrug it off—it's not like he was particularly keen on being in Heaven, much less seeing Gabriel—but Aziraphale drew himself up in a manner that seemed to make Uriel small and insignificant despite their differences in stature and rank.

"He'll be accompanying me, actually."

It wasn't an argument or a plea, it was a bold statement that completely glossed over the fact Uriel had referred to Crowley as Aziraphale's _boyfriend_.

Crowley and Uriel both stared at him, identically shocked expressions on their faces as their jaws scraped the floor. Aziraphale looked at them blandly, head tilted in curiosity.

"Is everything all right?"

Despite the blank look on his face, Crowley would have bet the Bentley that Aziraphale was enjoying himself. The demon continued to stare, a million thoughts racing through his head, alternating between: _demons preserve me he's not arguing_ , _BOYFRIENDS!_ , and questionable ideas that would likely get him punted arse over tit out of Heaven's windows.

Uriel recovered first, snapping their mouth shut. A muscle in their neck twitched as they turned on their heel, muttering, "This way" over their shoulder.

"They called me your _boyfriend_ ," Crowely said under his breath as they followed after the Archangel.

"Yes?"

The angel glanced sidelong at Crowley, his placid expression giving away nothing save a wink so subtle Crowley wasn't entirely certain he'd actually seen it. His mouth worked soundlessly, unable to get out even a fraction of the words that were tumbling around in his mind, fighting for attention.

Aziraphale gave him the most sardonic of pitying glances.

"Close your mouth, my dear."

Incapable of speaking a single word in retort, Crowley obeyed.

They arrived at Gabriel's office sooner than expected; in the curious way of Heaven, the office simultaneously came out of nowhere and looked as if it had been there all along. Uriel opened the door, deliberately only allowing enough space to force them to enter in single-file rather than side by side.

"Aziraphale and the _demon_ , Crowley."

Like Hastur, Uriel pronounced it akin to his first name: _Crawly_. He immediately liked them even less, and glared from behind his glasses as they slipped past to leave them alone with the Messenger of the Lord.

"Aziraphale! _…Crowley_."

Aziraphale cocked his head in a small measure of surprise. Of all the beings he would have expected to correctly pronounce Crowley's name, Gabriel was not one of them, especially as Gabriel kept mispronouncing _his_ name.

The Archangel sat in a lush executive's chair, his white desk pristine and devoid of all knick knacks except a small pen cup, an inbox/outbox rack, and a wax seal set. He gestured, and slightly less comfortable-looking white chairs appeared in front of them.

 _Clinical_ would be a great word to describe it, or _sterile_. _Minimalist_ was probably too far of a stretch. It was, in some ways, unfortunate that Gabriel was so opposed to interacting with humanity; his office could have been the next trend for all high-end corporate headquarters.

"Please," Gabriel said as he gestured, a wide, almost pained grin stretching bizarrely across his face. "Have a seat."

Crowley slipped into the left-most chair and made sure to drape himself across the seat in the most ostentatious way possible. Aziraphale, on the other hand, sat as primly as ever with his hands neatly folded into his lap, back upright and not touching the chair.

"Good morning, Gabriel," Aziraphale said pleasantly.

Gabriel didn't seem to agree with that assessment. Like Uriel, a muscle in his neck pulsed as he studied the pair of them.

"What can I help you with, Aziraphale? My bandwidth is limited today, you know, there are a _lot_ of action items to work on, what with Armageddon suddenly facing multiple blockers and Heaven's earthly representative not exactly being a team player."

Gabriel gave him a pointed look, and Aziraphale had the grace to arrange his features in a way that would pass for at least somewhat contrite.

"Erm, yes, well. I do apologise for interrupting, but we—" Aziraphale raised his voice a little as Gabriel opened his mouth to interject, "— _we_ heard from a reliable agent that there's trouble brewing in Heaven. Or possibly Hell. Is there anything we ought to know?"

Aziraphale's voice was mild, but power rippled beneath his words. Gabriel's pained smile returned as he spoke through gritted teeth.

"Well, Aziraphale, I can't really see as that's particularly relevant to you anym—"

"Why is Beelzebub coming up here?" Crowley interrupted. He leaned forward and rested his hands on Gabriel's desk, his fingers splayed wide. He allowed his self-control to slip, just a little, so that the whites of his eyes disappeared as he focused his gaze on the Archangel.

Gabriel furrowed his brow and averted his eyes. "I don't know how you've been made aware of, ah, _proprietary_ information, _demon_ —"

"Crowley," Aziraphale corrected automatically.

"—but that is genuinely none of your business."

Or at least, that's how it could be assumed that Gabriel intended to finish that sentence, because suddenly the door to the office slammed open and interrupted him. Beelzebub stood in the doorway, their hand leaving a sooty black mark on the gleaming door.

"Gabriel, I— _you_!" They stared at Crowley, the little fly-shaped cap on their head seeming to sway with anger. "What are you doing here?"

"Hullo," Crowley replied casually, as he stretched himself out on the chair as far as his limbs would go. "What fantastic timing."

"Watch yourself, snake," Beelzebub warned him, their s's turning into buzzing, elongated zeds that reverberated in everyone's ears.

Gabriel sighed as he miracled up a third chair—inky black this time, to make things less of an affront to his sensibilities—and motioned for Beelzebub to sit.

"Might as well," he muttered, seemingly to himself.

Once they were all settled, Gabriel waved his hand and cleared the handprint from the door, swinging it shut in one smooth motion. He settled in his seat and folded his hands on the desk; not primly like Aziraphale, but with gravitas as if he were the CEO of a mega-corporation about to deliver the sad news that an entire department would be sacked.

"Something has… happened," Gabriel began.

"Obviously," Crowley muttered under his breath. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"Something," Beelzebub drawled in their buzzing way, "has gotten loose. Something beyond the control of both Hell and Heaven."

"And they had a king over them," Gabriel intoned, violet eyes glazed over with what could only be described as holy rapture, "which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon."

Gabriel looked solemnly at them, as if expecting they would immediately understand the enormity of the situation based on verse alone; Beelzebub looked grimmer than usual, the flies around her head buzzing restlessly.

But Crowley frowned.

"Hang on," he said, squinting a little. "'Angel of the bottomless pit'—isn't that Adam? Adam Young? The Antichrist?"

After a moment, Aziraphale also frowned and nodded his head in agreement.

"That's right, that's Adam: 'the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, _Angel of the Bottomless Pit_ , Prince of This World, and Lord of Darkness'. Abaddon and the Antichrist are the same person...?"

Aziraphale trailed off, his statement turning into a question as Gabriel and Beelzebub looked nervously at each other.

At this, Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a Look of their own; Crowley's eyebrows flew to meet his hairline to say: _What? Did you see that?_

While Aziraphale's brows knitted together to reply: _Yes, but don't say anything!_

"It seems," Gabriel began slowly; he looked supremely discomfited.

"—there was," Beelzebub continued with a buzz.

"—a minor—"

"—exceedingly small—"

"—misinterpretation," Gabriel finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta readers, [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) and [akfedeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau). If you like my stuff, please check out their work!
> 
> * _Beelz_ is by Stephen Lynch. Listen at your own risk!  
> ** _Tadworth_ is in fact a real place, though I've taken some artistic liberties with it.


	6. Gang Aft Agley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually Chapter 05.
> 
> _Gabriel and Beelzebub drop a proverbial bombshell; Aziraphale tries to make sense of a nightmare._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! I'm going on a small hiatus until the September as I'm relocating on the first. Next update will hopefully be on 07 Sept!

"So," Crowley said, over-enunciating the word, "you're saying that you've completely lost track of someone that could start another Apocalypse?"

It is very unusual for silence to be absolute. Even in the utmost stillness, there'd be a small sound that gives away the presence of life—the ticking of a clock, the breath of a mouse, even the wind rustling in the trees.

 _This_ silence, however, was deafening. No one in the room needed to breathe and in Heaven, time was immaterial. There was nothing to break up the stillness: no wind, no birdsong, not even a sneeze.

Gabriel looked pained, half of his face twisted as if he ate something very cold much too quickly. He cleared his throat a few times, and looked to Beelzebub to answer for him. When they didn't, Gabriel gave a curt nod.

"Not _the_ Apocalypse, no, but otherwise that, um… about sums it up."

There was just half a beat before laughter bubbled out of Crowley; it rang out in peals and echoed through the empty expanse of the Heavenly office. He slipped down in his seat, head tossed back as he cackled, holding his sides as if they were ready to split.

At first Aziraphale tried to shush him, but soon his shoulders shook with the effort of holding back his own laughter. What a _fine_ pickle indeed, losing the angel of the abyss! He leaned into Crowley as the demon hooked an arm over his shoulders and the two of them laughed uproariously to both Gabriel and Beelzebub's increasing annoyance.

"Are you _quite_ finished?" Beelzebub snapped when they had settled down enough to wipe away the tears of mirth that streamed down their cheeks.

Aziraphale was the first one to recover enough to speak.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he hiccuped, though he didn't look very sorry at all. "It's just so… so…"

"Fucking hilarious?" Crowley supplied, his words elongated into a very snake-like hiss. "Absolutely hysterical?"

Aziraphale nodded, eyebrows turning up in apology even as another smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, "but it is quite comical."

"I'm so pleased you're enjoying yourselves," Gabriel managed to squeeze out through lips so thin they almost disappeared. "Meanwhile, Abaddon is somewhere out there, destroying your precious Humanity."

That was a sobering thought.

Aziraphale tugged on his coat and arranged his expression to something a bit more dignified. He glanced at Crowley, who still looked like the cat—or snake, rather—who ate the canary.

"It's still rather amazing that you _lost_ Abaddon," Crowley replied, settling back in his seat, "especially considering how furious Hell was when they found out I'd misplaced the Antichrist."

"Let's just take a moment," Aziraphale said with a glance at Beelzebub, who looked as if they wanted to wring Crowley's neck, "and go over this again."

He looked to Gabriel, not missing the way those violet eyes flashed with displeasure. But for the first time in Aziraphale's memory, there was something else there too: fear. Crowley spitting hellfire at him while wearing Aziraphale's face must have really put a strain on the normally unflappable Archangel.

"Firstly," Aziraphale began as he pulled out a small notepad and fountain pen from somewhere in his coat, "what misinterpretation are you referring to?"

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his seat; Aziraphale didn't think he had ever seen him this distressed.

"There were two popular interpretations of this prophecy. One, made in 1708 by a certain Matthew Henry, posited that the keeper of the abyss and the Antichrist were the same. The other, made in 1871 by Robert Jamieson, Andrew Robert Fausset, and David Brown, supposed that Abaddon was Satan."

"Obviously," buzzed Beelzebub, "we knew Abaddon couldn't be Satan. But we had yet to know how the Antichrist would be brought forth."

"You know what they say about assumptions—OI." Crowley rubbed his side where Aziraphale poked him.

"Earlier interpretations," Gabriel continued as if Crowley hadn't spoken, "posited that Abaddon was a place, and not a conscious being. We discounted this interpretation, as that realm already had a name."

"What realm?"

"The realm of the dead—Limbo."

Aziraphale blinked at the coincidence. He didn't dare look at Crowley, absolutely certain that if he did the demon's eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair.

"So what _is_ it, then?" he asked, belligerently ignoring Crowley's surreptitious attempts to get his attention. "Abaddon isn't the Antichrist, Satan, or even Limbo. Then what?"

Gabriel and Beelzebub exchanged another glance and, much to both Aziraphale and Crowley's shock and immediate consternation, seemed to have an entire conversation without speaking a word.

"We don't know," Beelzebub finally admitted.

Crowley snorted. "Then how can you know it's escaped?"

"A valid question," Aziraphale agreed.

"A week ago," Gabriel said with a sigh, " _something_ escaped from Hell."

Out of nowhere, a thin screened box akin to a television screen appeared and began to play what seemed to be Hell's equivalent of CCTV. Soundless, black-and-white footage flickered across the screen: a metal door exploded outward into a dingy, dimly lit hallway; a dozen demons scattered, mouths open in what could only be horrified screams as the ground opened up to swallow them whole. One by one the lights went out, before the playback crackled into static.

The television disappeared with a wave of Gabriel's hand.

Aziraphale didn't realise he was shaking until Crowley reached over.

"Hey," he said softly. "All right?"

Aziraphale nodded, smiling a little as he patted Crowley's hand. "Fine."

But Crowley didn't let go. Instead, he turned his attention to Gabriel, his thin fingers still resting lightly against Aziraphale's arm.

"What I don't understand," he said, his voice tinged with suspicion, "is why any of you lot _care_. You seemed happy enough to destroy the world a fortnight ago."

Silence. Then—

"The Great Plan has been postponed," Beelzebub's words were slow, dragged out of them with great reluctance. "Paperwork, for starters. And we still do not have an answer to your… query."

"What qu—oh!" Belatedly, Aziraphale remembered the last ditch attempt he made at convincing both Heaven and Hell to stop pressuring Adam to restart the Apocalypse: was the _Great_ Plan the same as the _Ineffable_ Plan? It was pedantic, to be sure, but it had been enough to give Humanity—and them—a reprieve.

Gabriel gave Beelzebub a look that could almost be described as sympathy before he shot Aziraphale a withering glare.

"Until we know the answer," he added, somewhat bitterly, "we cannot allow the world that God created in Her infinite wisdom to be destroyed by an errant creature."

Crowley wrinkled his nose, dissatisfied. "Fine, then, assuming that's true—"

"I wouldn't _lie!_ " Gabriel looked horrified by the very idea.

"—whose side is it on?"

* * *

Without thinking, Crowley navigated the Bentley toward Soho, glancing with concern at Aziraphale; he sat quietly, staring somewhere only he could see. He hadn't been himself ever since Gabriel played that footage, only half paying attention as Uriel ushered them back to the elevator.

Crowley swerved in and out of highway traffic with increasing recklessness, hoping to get the usual startled gasp and admonition, but nothing doing. Even going ninety miles an hour through London wasn't enough to pull Aziraphale out of wherever he'd gone.

A parking space miraculously freed across the way as he pulled up to the bookshop, so he swerved in and parked.

"Hey, angel. We're here."

Aziraphale didn't look up.

Crowley slipped out of the car and went to the passenger's side; he opened the door and knelt next to Aziraphale, resting a hand lightly on his knee.

Not many things frighten an angel. Hellfire and Falling were the notable exceptions, though Aziraphale had recently thumbed his nose at both. 

But Aziraphale couldn't shake the growing horror from seeing his nightmare play out on-screen. Dread filled him, foreboding wormed its way into the very depths of his being. Had it been a premonition? Surely not a prophecy—angels weren't capable of seeing the future. A message from God? Even more unlikely.

Perhaps it was Crowley's influence, Aziraphale's affection for him that took hold; pity and sorrow for the nameless demons swallowed up in Abaddon's wake filled him, until he too was falling, falling… falling…

_"Aziraphale."_

Crowley's voice broke through the murkiness, muddled at first but then echoing in his spirit louder and louder until it was clear as a bell. His name was a lifeline; Aziraphale grabbed hold, following Crowley's voice out of the nightmare that played over and over again in his mind's eye. The interior of the Bentley sharpened into focus, and he found Crowley studying at him with a concerned expression.

"Oh, hello Crowley."

Wordlessly, Crowley helped him out of the Bentley, his hands gentle as he brushed imaginary dirt off of Aziraphale's coat and straightened his lapels and bowtie. With a snap of his fingers, the Bentley doors shut and locked behind them; they crossed the street, and with another snap the doors to the bookshop flew open.

 _Snap._ The doors closed and locked.

 _Snap._ A cup of tea appeared on Aziraphale's desk, hot and steaming inside a 1887 Royal Doulton teacup Aziraphale was sure to appreciate.

 _Snap._ The coat suddenly found itself hanging from the coat stand, replaced on Aziraphale's person by his cosy grey cardigan.

"I'm fi—" Aziraphale began, the corners of his mouth tugging up.

 _Snap._ His shoes were replaced by fluffy slippers.

"My dear—"

 _Snap._ A plate of biscuits appeared next to the tea.

_"Crowley."_

With a grin, Crowley dropped onto the davenport and rested his feet atop the small coffee table. Aziraphale was smiling again, a real smile this time and not that sad little not-smile. Praise be to Sa—to G— _someone_.

"That was something," Crowley said, keeping his voice light. "I've never seen Beelzebub have a silent conversation with anyone before."

"I've never seen Gabriel do it either."

"You don't think…?"

Aziraphale started to shake his head, then stopped. "You know, I was about to say 'no' but stranger things have happened." He looked at Crowley over his teacup with unabashed affection. "Perhaps they'll come to an Arrangement of their own. It might do them both some good."

Crowley laughed. "Come on, that would be weirder than you and me dating."

Aziraphale looked at him sadly, blue eyes round as saucers. "You think it's weird that we're dating?"

With a loud bang, Crowley sat bolt upright, his feet slamming into the floor.

"Not at all! I just—" He broke off and glared at Aziraphale as the angel grinned into his biscuit. "You _bastard._ "

"Perhaps."

Silence can also be comforting.

Crowley leaned back and rested his head against the wall behind the davenport; contentedly, he watched as Aziraphale indulged, and felt a peace settle over him like it so often did in Aziraphale's company.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Aziraphale set the teacup down and folded his hands over his belly. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't."

"My dear, you'll have to learn how to accept my gratitude _sometime_."

"Mmhm, mmhm… _or_ instead, how about you tell me what happened up there."

For a moment, Crowley thought he'd pushed Aziraphale too far. Aziraphale sat stock-still in his chair, a tremble in his hand the only sign he hadn't spontaneously turned to stone. But after a few moments, Aziraphale sighed.

"I didn't call you for nothing last night."

In slow, halting words, Aziraphale told Crowley about his nightmare, if it could be called that now. He glossed over the memory of his fight with Hannah, instead focusing on the parallels with the footage Gabriel showed and the feelings of dread and abject terror that accompanied it.

"But angels can't see the future," he finished, the confusion in his voice nearly palpable. "So it doesn't really make sense that they're related beyond coincidence."

Crowley frowned. "There's no such thing as coincidence. You know that, angel."

Aziraphale nodded miserably.

* * *

_"Top experts at The Geological Society in Britain are baffled by the sudden appearance of a massive sinkhole in Tadworth, a small village located just outside of London. According to witnesses, the sinkhole appeared without any warning in the middle of the local country club golf course during the annual—"_

Newton Pulsifer stared at the television, the placid voice of the BBC America newscaster undermining the horror that crept through his body as footage of a gargantuan sinkhole played across the screen.

"Anathema?" he called out.

"Yeah?"

"You should come see this."

_"—people missing, presumed deceased. Tadworth is most known for a local legend known as the Tadworth Jinx, a curious phenomenon that is often credited as the cause of unfortunate occurrences in the village—"_

Anathema stood next to Newt, her attention fixed on the television as she dried off her long hair with a hotel towel. She narrowed her eyes as years of conditioning kicked in; this _had_ to be part of Agnes' prophecy. She'd stake the entire Device fortune on it.

Newt looked at her, a knowing smile on his face.

"Vacation over?"

Anathema flipped the towel over her head, already pulling her luggage out of the closet.

"Vacation over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta readers, [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis) and [akfedeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau). They're both wonderful writers and if you're so inclined I encourage you to check out their work!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
